The Unexpected Return
by TheDoctorandtheDaleks
Summary: My name is Aliza. I have no last name and no home. I can't be considered a homeless person as the streets of London don't offer shelter for they are my battlegrounds. When I was a child of maybe 8 I met a man who saved my life. Shortly after he melted into the shadows and I was only left with his name- Sherlock Holmes. Years later our paths crossed once again.
1. Chapter 1 (REWRITTEN)

**Author's note: I am currently rewriting all of the current eight chapters to improve writing quality. Most of the edits will be grammar corrections and sentence structure corrections which will hopefully make the reading experience much more enjoyable. I will be uploading these as new chapters (and deleting the old chapters one by one) as the some of the followers of the story have said they would like to reread the story since it has been a very long time since it was updated last. Any feedback and constructive criticism of the new writing is greatly appreciated and invited. I hope you all enjoy my rewriting of the chapters and the continuation of the story once that point is reached. Happy 2016 everyone! May this year be kind and prosperous to you all. : )**

**-V**

* * *

><p>Charging around the corner, my feet practically flew on top of the slick, water-stained pavement. I heard two gunshots ring out behind me like an air raid siren, making my already pounding heart, thunder. I tried my best to run in an unpredictable pattern in hopes that it would make me a harder target to hit. As my left foot smacked down on the slippery pavement, I could feel the outer edge of my sneaker hit the walkway instead of the sole. This caused my ankle to tremble, rolling out from underneath me. Flailing, I desperately staggered forward, praying that my tweaked ankle would not collapse.<p>

I could hear the sound of hammering feet not far behind me. Mentally imagining a gun being cocked and aimed, I tried to calculate the possible results. My pursuers were running; that already lowered the likelihood of them firing off a deadly, or severely debilitating, shot. Considering they were releasing gunfire on a running target (read: me), their chances of hitting me continued to plummet. It was even more unlikely that it would be a major organ. While I was confident of my computations, I decided to take a precaution. Seconds before the trigger was pulled, I hiked my backpack up to protect my head. Most people probably wouldn't consider that as playing it safe, but for me, that was about as safe as it got. The speeding bullet whizzed through the air 5 inches to the left of me. Flinching away, I tried to run faster.

My lungs and the muscles in my legs were beginning to burn. Every breath I drew in became a struggle, and a sharp pain began to manifest itself in my sides. Even with my years of training, running for more than eight or nine blocks at top speed was beginning to wear on me. I quickly drew close to the end the alley which opened out onto the main road. Mentally, I could see a map of the London streets and alleys laid out. There were two possibilities: turn left or turn right. If I barreled around the left corner, I would emerge into a street with numerous automobiles, stores, and flats. The right would lead me closer to businesses. It was more likely that a pedestrian would call the police in a well-populated area rather than in an industrial area. In this situation, many would want to have the police come to their aid, but for me, that was the last thing I needed. I practically flew around the right corner, my pursuers not far behind.

What came into view planted a dead weight in my stomach. The exact issue that I had been trying to avoid now lay right in front of me. There had been a car accident approximately 15 minutes ago, judging by the number of services that had arrived. One of the services that had arrived on the scene was a police car. Damn it. There was no possible scenario in which the scene of a sprinting teenager followed by two armed men would go unnoticed. Before I could switch my path I was already half way around the right corner. I scrambled to find an alternate route, but after a quick sweep of the street, I realized there were only two plausible options. I could either attempt to reverse my course and practically walk into the waiting arms of my pursuers, or I could take the risk and continue my path. While the possibility of being shot was quite bleak, if I handed myself over to the police, all the previous risks and efforts I had taken for the mission would go to waste.

I frantically wheeled around on my heels and sprinted to the left. No air entered or left my nose, and I could feel my heart stutter. Everything now relied on luck; which was not something that I liked to depend on even though it kept me alive more than half the time. Before I heard it I already knew what would happen. I knew that the good fortune that had followed me for so many years was now bidding me farewell and showing itself out the door. The sound of a gunshot cracked through the air. Piercing through my jean leg, the bullet ripped burrowed into my thigh. The pain poisoned my nerves, branching out across my lower body. A chilling voice whispered and seeped through my brain."It's over," it rattled. I crumpled to the ground, overcome by the pain. Snapping my head around to look behind me, I saw that my stalkers were no less than 6 or 7 ft away. My mind screamed desperately at my legs and feet to operate. I was now haphazardly crawling forward in a blind panic, my hands clawing at the wet pavement.

Through my blurry, sweat-filled vision, I saw an open doorway. With the last ounces of adrenaline that I could muster, I launched myself forward and crashed through the doorway, slamming the door shut behind me. Using the back of the door as support, I collapsed to the floor. I was barely conscious now and could only faintly hear the commotion outside. Grimly, I smiled to myself. My pursuers had attracted the police, but I had slipped through their grasps. Smudges of blacks and grays began to flit around the peripherals of my vision, and a radio-like static began to roar in my ears. The last thing I saw was a petite, elderly woman standing in a flat's doorway to my right. Then all was black.


	2. Chapter 2

Images drifted haphazardly through my cloaked mind. They pierced through the veil of darkness that wrapped around me, smothering my mind like a sheet. Only on brief occasions could identify the hallucinations sauntering forward, each vying for top position. I am almost definite that I was uttering resonances during my troubled, unwanted sleep. Imaginings that had the countenances of events from my past floated forth. They became more vivid the longer I remained in this short-lived coma. The reds, greys, dull yellows, and black swirled around me blending in and out of focus like the crayon scribbles by a two year old. Through my restless sleep I soon became aware of a rushing tenor. It surfaced in my ears and began to spread out and drown out all other occurrences like the crashing waves of a troubled sea. My whole body abruptly jolted, telling me that I had awoken. I could feel surface the sunken in of firm, but lax object. Slowly I relaxed my previously tense muscles and released my eyelids which had been firmly squeezed against each other before. Everything in my vision blurred and quivered before me. The light violently streaming through a window pierced through like a dagger and overwhelmed every other mass. I could vaguely see a blob of skin tone above me. My ears unplugged themselves and I could hear what could be assumed as voices.

Tiredly, I pinched my eyes closed again. My mind was too groggy to operate with all its' pistons. My eyes once again returned to the darkness while I attempted to relocate all the features and fit them back together. It wasn't until one voice stabbed through the invisible cloak that was wrapped around me that I became alert. In shock, my eyes snapped upon and then quickly were squeezed shut again due to the blinding brightness attacking me. I groaned and made an attempt to sit up by placing the flat of my hand and firmly pressing against what I had now identified as a sofa. Very rapidly I knew I had made a mistake as a bullet of pain shot up and down my body. I had to mentally force myself not to vomit. Through the excruciating pain I felt a hand firmly, but gently push my body back into the folds and creases of the furniture. The agony which was subsiding caused me to temporarily overlook the voice I had heard just moments ago.

I could hear murmured whispers from my left hand side. Before I let would let my alertness be known no matter how curious I was I wanted to see if I could remember what placed me in this position in the first place. After a few minutes, my experience from earlier that day came crashing back on top of me. I sifted through them until I had at least a vague idea of what the facts were. First: I had been chased by two men with guns. Secondly: I had been coming out of an alley and turned right before realizing what would lie ahead which then cause me to turn around and in vain, attempt to divert my course. Third: While attempting to backtrack I had been shot in what felt to be the thigh of my left leg. This was just friggin' brilliant. I looked down at my body. An orange blanket which was most likely a shock blanket had been draped over my upper body. I pushed my chin deeper into my chest and saw that my upper left thigh had been wrapped tightly in what appeared to be strips of white sheets which had already been stained with blood. My wounded leg had also had many pillows put beneath it in an attempt to elevate it above my heart. Damn it. A gun shot like that would keep me down for at least a few weeks if not more depending if it had shattered any bone. At least I had escaped almost certain death though that fact still did not console my feelings about my injury.

"Where the bloody hell am I?"I asked, though due to being unconscious for quite a while my voice had been reduced to a mere scratch. My eyes were open but to only a fraction of their potential as my senses were still adjusting.

"You're in a downstairs section of a flat on Baker Street, in London, England, We had to borrow Mrs. Hudson's living room. Getting you upstairs would probably of caused more harm than good." said a voice. It was calm and gentle, but direct, like the hand that had restrained me only minutes ago. I was unable to lay eyes on the person who was producing it as they were not included in my compromised vision. The person then offered me a glass of milk with a pill in their other hand, "Here, take this. It's a painkiller to help your leg, will make you a bit sleepy though."I still couldn't see their face but at least now I had a slightly better mental image.

I silently accepted the offered medication. My brain gave me a possible suggestion that it could not be painkiller at all and instead was some drug that caused hallucinations. For all I knew I could have actually been captured and let live at the last moment due to a change of plan. This whole room could be a fantasy brought by drugs just to deceive me. But at this point my leg felt like a splinter of firewood that was beginning to ignite so I reluctantly dismissed my fears.

"You didn't call the police, did you?"I muttered after sending the medication to my stomach with a gulp of milk. It was very unlikely that a person wouldn't call the cops when someone collapsed on their doorstep after being shot.

"I wanted to but my idiot friend, Sherlock, said not to."

"Good," I muttered very unenthusiastically. But underneath my sour tone, my brain was alive. The name mentioned was familiar to me but throughout my experience and self-training, I had learned control and the need of showing a lack of emotion.

"Why wouldn't you want us to call the police? You just got shot by some maniac with a gun." the unseen person asked. They sounded a bit surprised and a little concerned; they probably had suspicions that I was an escaped fugitive. Their apprehensions were partially correct.

"Why should I tell you?"

Silence followed. Whoever it was who was conversing with me had probably dealt with situations similar to the current moment. They were most likely either a doctor or a solider, possibly both. Only a person with such a profession would remain calm and composed at a time like this.

"What do you do for a living?" I asked, attempting to appear as if I were just chatting to pass the time.

"Um, I'm a doctor," they replied. I inwardly smiled. I still had it.

"Oh, that's nice. Did you ever spend time in the military?" I questioned.

There was a miniscule pause.

"Yes, I was a doctor in Afghanistan. How did you know?" they answered back. You could only catch the slight surprise in their voice if you had a knack for reading people, which I did. Again, the person was very calm and did not give any large hints about their current thoughts or emotions. Not only had military time taught them medical skills, but it had also given them control.

"Oh, lucky guess," I said back while making an attempt to shrug my shoulders which in turn caused tremors of pain to run up and down my body like live electrical wires. I let out a small gasp and my eyes widened. The injury was going to down me for at least a month.

"Hey, hey, just relax. You've been shot and need serious medical attention."

"I figured," I said with a note of sarcasm.

By now, my vision had cleared and my senses stabilized. I was beginning to soak in the details off the room. It was a small living room with a standing lamp in the corner. I could see the beginnings of a kitchen through a door-way.

"Is the bullet still in my leg?" Even though I didn't want to go to the hospital, an infection wasn't exactly what I would have called an ideal situation either.

"It's still in. I didn't want to risk taking it out just in case it was corking a major artery. You're pretty luck though. It didn't hit any major organs obviously. I still wanted to call an ambulance but Sherlock was very intent on not."

Ah, there it was again; Sherlock. Even though I already knew who he was, I needed a bit of a refresh so I decided to try to slowly and inconspicuously strike up a conversation.

"So, this friend of yours, Sherlock, where's he?"

"I don't know. He left shortly before you woke up, said he had some urgent business to take care of."

"Okay. Are you two together?"

"No! No, we aren't together," they replied, obviously embarrassed. I could hear them quietly mutter, "Why do people always think I'm gay?"

There was more silence. This was getting tedious and frustrating. It would help greatly if I could actually see who I was talking to.

"Can I sit up at all?"

"Your injury's pretty bad. Sitting up, walking, or anything like that would just make it worse. You just need to rest."

"How long do you think?"

"You'll have to stay off of it for at least a week and after that you'll have to go to therapy or something of the sort."

"But I can't possibly wait weeks. I have to get out of here!"I began to panic. This was just great, just bloody great. It would've of been bad if it had just been a few days, but at least a week and even therapy?!

"I'm afraid not. Rest is your only option."

"But-!"

"No 'but's about it. You're injured and you have to rest. That's doctor's orders!"

If I could have seen the man's face I probably would have given him the death glare. I must admit, I was very grateful of the treatment I had received, but I was too pissed at myself for being stupid enough to come so precariously close to falling into enemy hand. Hell, I could be without even realizing it.

"You need to rest now."

I heard someone stand up and walk across the room. I could see their back as they walked over to the windows and drew the curtains closed.

"Just one more thing," I half-asked.

"Yeah?" he answered back.

"What your name?"

"John, John Watson. Now you need to try and get some sleep."

The man then proceeded to stride over to the left side of the flat and disappear into a separate room.

My mind was alive with questions that screamed to be answered. Was it him? Could he possibly be alive and back in London? Who was this person who had appeared to of befriended the bizarre man? How would I find a way to run through London with the state my leg was in? After approximately 10 to 15 minutes of these questions and ones similar to them riding a never ending carousel around and around my head, I began to feel the first side effects of the painkillers take place and the last points of adrenaline leave. My mind slowly succumbed to silence as I slipped into a disturbed sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

**Sorry for how short this chapter is! I' m trying put a bridge in between the chapters. Please tell me if you like it (or not). Thanks for all the follows and favorites, everyone! :) **

In my troubled sleep, I could fathom many imaginations which were enhanced by the drugs. None of them surfaced for any extended periods time and just floated throughout the suffocating, black veil that embraced my mind. A dagger of pain ripped through the dull, dark, cloud bringing my mind forward. Reds pulsated near the perimeters and slowly faded to muddy magentas and then to the blackness that was my central focus. The back of my neck prickled. Unseen hallucinations watched me from the darkness. I was isolated, completely alone. There were no walls, nothing to grip onto. The sensation of floating aimlessly took over. The fear in my mind reached critical. Nothing could be seen but they were there. Inches from my face, they breathed their dank, invisible breath onto my trembling, open- mouthed face. I couldn't leave. Have you ever been in a room entirely alone but you feel like you're being watched? You imagine that if you turn around your invisible, non-existent prowler will be staring hungrily into your face. The air closes in around you, panic rising in your chest until you feel like your drowning. You keep seeing the surface of the water you are submerged below, the sunlight, but no matter how much you struggle upwards, you never reach it.

A flare of light erupted through the dim and surrounded me. A fiery inferno engulfed my distant mind, licking it in heat, and flames. I was rapidly falling, plummeting through the vast expanse, a blaze left in my wake. My skin ignited, bonding me with the comet of fire I was plummeting with. The flames expelled outwards around me. I was left to darkness again. A sliver of ice slipped through, its chill radiating through me, piercing me. I waited for the draft to pass me, but it hovered around me, enclosing me in a sheet of a damp coldness.

My brain jolted, tearing through the blanket around my mind, ripping off the drugs. I now returned to the conscious world, trying to calm my heaving breaths. A chill ran through me radiating from my legs up to my face, rippling like a rain drop hitting a water surface. My eyelids wearily cracked open with grains of sleep stuck to my lashes. Slowly, my mind opened letting the accounts of the day flow back to me. I carefully rotated my head trying not to disrupt my ailing leg. The lack of light from the window told me that it was most likely nighttime. My ears alerted me of small mummers of sound leaking out from the doorway that led to the kitchen. Straining, I tried to pick up lose bits of the conversation.

"What are we going to do…"I heard before the voice trailed into a quieter, more hushed tone. My brain recognized this voice as belonging to the man I had conversed with earlier after awakening from my unconsciousness state. A name flashed into my mind: John Watson.

"I told you, it won't work,"said another voice, deeper and smoother than the other, but with an edge to it. A small, mental needle pricked my brain. I closed my eyes. I had to be absolutely sure. My ears strained forward again. I could physically feel them stretch their senses to their finest.

"I don't care if you're Sherlock Holmes or not! She's risking an infection as it is and she needs to go to the hospital!" exclaimed the voice now linked with presumably Dr. Watson.

Normally, I don't feel large rushes of emotion or excitement. Control was the key to my survival. Without it, I would be torn down and deleted from this world lke a gnat that needed to be swatted away. No, emotions were not my friends. But this once, just this once, I allowed my heart to leap, figuratively of course. My eyes lit up similar to the lights that people commonly nail to their houses during the holidays. Only the indication of one certain person could release the emotions and excitement that had been pent up or non-existent in me for years on end: Sherlock Holmes.


	4. Chapter 4

I grimaced in pain as I gingerly tried to struggle into a more upward position. About halfway up, I accidentally leaned a smidge too much on my wounded leg causing me to unintentionally let out a yelp of pain. My cry of distress attracted the attention of the quietly conversing duo in the kitchen. The figure that I had seen the back of earlier appeared in the doorway with a look of concern on his face.

"What did I say about sitting up?" he asked. Judging from his tone and countenance, he was quite annoyed but worried as well. I couldn't blame him though. It's not every day you have to take care of a stranger that has a bullet lodged in their thigh.

Though unfortunately for him, I was annoyed as well and decided to retort will carefully lower my ailing body back down to the couch.

"I'd thought you'd be taller. Finally took my advice, didn't he? "

"What? Who?" John asked, clearly confused.

"Nothing," I muttered. The pills must have been getting to me. It wasn't normal that I dropped small hints.

Fortunately, the doctor allowed it to slide and silence ensued for a brief period. It was interrupted when the other half of the duo entered the scene.

"Ah, hello. You're awake now, I see. That's good. I probably should introduce you two, John, Aliza, Aliza, John.-"

"We've already met" I said, though my tone did not expose my emotions at the time. It was the same old him. All of him: his gravity-defying black curls, cheekbones so sharp you could probably use them to carve wood, and his mouth shooting sentences out a mile a minute. Now a smile played across my face. Normally I would have blamed it on the drugs, but not this time. This time the happiness was genuine.

"Wait, you know her?!" John asked incredulously, he's eye's coming close to popping out of his skull.

"Well, of course I know who. Do you think I take responsibility of just any wounded stranger?" Sherlock defended.

"Oh my god,"John expressed, "Why didn't you tell me?!"

"I thought it was obvious," Sherlock asked, legitimately surprised at the dullness of his friend.

"Maybe to your funny little brain it is but not mine!"John practically shouted.

"It's not my fault that you didn't pay attention!" Sherlock shot back.

During this whole cacophony, I proceeded to lie there now in a slightly better position when it came to the benefit of my eyes. My first thoughts were that whoever this doctor was that Sherlock had picked as a friend, it was probably a good choice. Sometimes Sherlock needed someone to argue with him, let him know that not everything he says would be followed and taken as gospel. But also a person, who was kind, compassionate, and would go out of his way to help you.

"Okay, girls, please, not now," I interrupted.

Both heads simultaneously turned to point in my directi_o_n, each possessing glares on their faces that had carried over from arguing.

"Hello," I nodded towards the detective staring into his piercing eyes, attempting to silently ask the questions that sat in my mind like deadweights, "so we meet again."

"Indeed. How's the leg?" he answered back.

"Hellish," I answered back, actually quite trueful to the state of my leg.

My empty stomach decided that now was the best time to make itself present with its best impression of a distraught feline that it could muster.

Dr. Watson took the queue, "I'll go make some tea. I think Mrs. Hudson has biscuits in the cupboard. "He then hurriedly disappeared into the kitchen, obviously with a lot of thoughts nagging at his mind.

I watched Sherlock sit down into an armchair, opposite to me on my upper right hand side.

"How'd you recognize me? It's got to be at least 6 years." I inquired.

"Oh, it was simple. Your overly large eyes, too small nose, conspicuous ears…" he rambled.

Now most people would be offended by the detective's description, but I know that this was his way of covering for his mind while he searched for possible explanations for the mysteries chasing each other round and round his head.

"Are you just going to sit there and insult me, or are you going to ask me all those questions you have bouncing inside your head?" I offered.

"Sorry," he said half apologetically.

Wow, whoever this John Watson was, he sure had been a good influence.

"How's…everything?" Sherlock, asked quite awkwardly after a considerable bought of silence.

I raised an eyebrow. It was completely and utterly out of character for Sherlock Holmes to actually try and make conversation with someone.

"What? That's what people do right? Ask people how they are and then talk about the weather." The consultant said, clearly socially uncomfortable and out of his league.

I couldn't help but laugh. I blame it partially on the pain killers but at least half of it was non drug inflicted, laughter, "Oh dear, Sherlock, what have they done to you?"

"What? Is something wrong with me?" Sherlock asked sounding genuinely worried that he was flawed.

This only provoked my drug influenced mind to continue to giggle at the bemused mien of the man. After the fit of laughter had subsided and I had gained control over my vocal chords I enthusiastically reassured him, "No, Sherlock, you're perfectly okay. In fact, you're marvelous."

Before either of us could continue the conversation, the shatter of ceramic rang out from the kitchen. Both of us could hear Dr. Watson, "Damn it. Mrs. Huddson's not going to be too pleased about that," leaving us to assume that he had just dropped a tea cup.

I focused back to the discussion on hand, "So, I see you're back in London, then?"

"Yes, my hiatus is over."

Suddenly, John broke into the conversation from his position in the kitchen, "Wait, _she_ knew you weren't dead?! You told some 13 year old homeless girl that you faked your own death but you didn't bother to tell your best friend?"

"14," I muttered under my breath.

"John, we've already gone over this. And actually I didn't tell her." Sherlock answered back to him.

"Then how did she know?" John returned.

"I don't know. How did you know?" Sherlock said now turning his attention back to me.

"It was obvious. Anybody who knew you would be able to tell that Moriarty was real. Only an idiot would be blind enou-" I heard a shout of protest rise from the kitchen, "sorry," I apologized to the third wheel in our conversation.

"Fair enough, and you don't have to apologize, John can be a bit dull sometimes," Sherlock said.

I was pretty sure if John was any more ticked off at the moment, a well-aimed tea cup would probably be hurled at the consultant from the doctor's position in the kitchen.

The doctor reentered the room holding two cups of tea. I was slightly disappointed not to see three. John obviously could tell, "There's already caffeine in the painkillers you're taking, don't want to have too much."

He set the two cups onto the coffee table in the middle of the room and then strode back to the kitchen. I was hoping that he would soon reappear with some biscuits. By now, my stomach was practically screeching for fuel.

"Besides faking your own death, what have you been up to these days?" I asked.

"I could ask the same to you, well, minus the fake suicide part," the detective answered.

"Well, what do you think?" I challenged.

The consultant caught onto the game, the contest, "Well, at a first glance it's easy to tell that you've been on the run, hiding. You've recently huddled down in a different section of London because your clothes smell of smog and pollution but don't reek of them yet so you must be close to a densely traveled area, most likely near a bus stop. You don't dare come to close to public view judging from the dirt in your hair and clothes indicating that you currently inhabit an unkempt alley way, not sleeping in the gutters at night. Furthermore, you've injured your arm, the scar on it suggests a knife probably one of a fellow homeless person due to the fact that the cut was slightly gouged indicating that they had no professional way of taking care of the weapon so the knife blade was in poor condition. You tried to stitch the wound up by yourself but only did a half decent job which is why the scarring is more vivid."

"Whatever you're running from is obviously more than one person or otherwise you would have already relocated or taken care of them by now. No, they have minions working for them, tracking you throughout the city. This has caused you great distress as you have taken to the habit of biting your finger nails something that you don't normally do which I can tell from the fact that they are not completely bitten down which would take you about 2-3 weeks. So this threat has only come recently in the past week or two. Whoever it is that is stalking you must have power or money, something to bribe their employees with in exchange for their services. Most likely the money is illegally obtained, probably from theft. This person must know the ways of the homeless, possibly might have been on themselves at one point in time, or otherwise you already would of escaped them by now and be in another country. Why don't you hop a plane or train to another destination? That's because you can't go anywhere without a risk indicating that you're hunter has many forces at work and not just a handful of assassins. Most likely they have spies in the community services such as the police and emergency medical aid which s why you asked John to not call the police.

"Whatever you've done, it must have greatly upset them, possibly and most likely posed a threat. Maybe you know of their illegal money? No, it's much more than that, if you were going to let the whole world know about the currency issue they would have nothing to worry about. Who would believe a homeless teen living on the streets? You must know or possess something more important than that something that would not land them in jail, but possibly lead them to their execution. Maybe you have their plans for an attack they are scheduling. Maybe it's some papers or documents that they don't want to see the light. But they don't just want the stolen object, they want your head on a stake to prevent you from passing the information on to anyone who might possibly believe you such as a close friend or ally. So you have been sheltering in the darkest corners of London to hide from them and only now have they been able to drive you towards the open. Am I correct?"

The detective now steeped (?) his hands underneath his chin while staring intently at me with his pale blue eyes. To most people this would be unnerving, but I had learned to remain unmoved by expression such as these due to the multiple interrogations I had been given from the numerous enemies had created over time. Even though I was knowledgeable of the capabilities of Sherlock's mind, the accuracy of his 1 minute theory surpassed my expectations, but there was a part he had missed, "Yes, yes you are, except for one vital part."


	5. Chapter 5

**Sorry for the lack of length for this chapter! hope to make the next one longer. Thanks for all the follows and favorites, guys. I really appreciate it. :) 3**

"What? What did I miss?" Sherlock inquired looking slightly surprised.

"You're getting slow, Sherlock. Maybe that two year break did your brain more harm than good, and of course, the drugs."

John reentered the room holding a plate of biscuits. My stomach had been running on empty since last night when I had reluctantly consumed the last of my provisions: stale saltine crackers.

"Sherlock, were you doing drugs while you were gone?" the doctor demanded to know as he had obviously been listening to our conversation while obtaining the food, "And don't lie."

"Well, what did you expect me to do?!-"Sherlock started.

"Sherlock!" John exclaimed with his voice slightly tinted with annoyance. But if you looked past the shade of anger, you could also hear the worry in his voice. John Watson truly did care about Sherlock's well-being.

Even though I was just about as unsettled as John was about the detective's drug habits, I knew it would have to be bickered over at a different time. There were more pressing matters at hand.

"May I have a biscuit, please?" I said after clearing my throat, hoping to steer the conversation back on track.

"Oh, sure," John said, beforesetting the tray of snacks onto a small, table with a circular top that was close enough to me that I wouldn't have to strain to reach the morsels.

"Okay," the detective sighed, focusing his piercing gaze back on me, "what did I miss?"

"Really, I would have expected you to have guessed by now," through a mouthful of crumbs that used to be a biscuit.

"I don't guess, I notice." The consultant cut in.

"Okay, okay, I would have expected you to have _noticed _by now." I corrected myself.

"What? Are you just not saying to annoy me?" Sherlock asked, now sounding quite irritated.

" Okay, okay, didn't-" I paused to check if there were any open windows that would leak the conversation. There were none, but for cautionary measures, I whispered, "Didn't you look through my backpack?"

Sherlock's eyebrows jumped up on his brow, "Your backpack?"

"Yes, did you think I'd just lug that thing around if I didn't have to?"

"Oh, well, that wouldn't of been polite to search through your belongings" the detective said.

"And when has polite mattered to you, Sherlock?" I shot back. To my left I could hear John choke back a snort of laughter. Obviously it wasn't that often a client had a sass off with the detective. On cue, Sherlock shot a glare towards the doctor.

"Okay, Sherlock, you didn't think about it, no reason to pout," John said now loosening up a bit after the tensions of earlier. At this, Sherlock obviously became aware of his countenance for he let his often-worn expressionless mask fall back on his face.

"Okay, Dr. Watson, would you be kind enough to hand my backpack to me?" I asked, motioning across the room to where my well-traveled sack had been placed after I had been rendered unconscious earlier that day.

"Of course," John said before rising from the wooden storage chest he had settled himself on. Crossing the room, he came over to where I was propped up on the sofa, holding my backpack for me to take. I took the pack from him and he returned to sitting on what I had now deduced to be a mahogany chest. Fumbling with the pack's zippers, I paused, "Are any of the windows open?"

"No, I don't think so, but I'll go check," John replied before getting up to check the kitchen and any other of the rooms that could possibly have windows.

For a few moments there was silence. Breaking it, I fixed my eyes onto the curly haired detective, "Sherlock, you said I was on the run. You were right, I am." I was cut short for at that moment, Dr. Watson reentered the living room, "Checked, only one that was open was the kitchen one which I closed."

"Okay, that's good, thank you," I replied. After John was seated again, I opened my backpack and drew out a notebook. Holding it towards Sherlock, I said, "All that you need to know is in here."


	6. Chapter 6

**Thank you for all the follows and favorites guys! :D I do apologize for the lengthy stretch in between updates. Unfortunately, this is an incredibly short chapter, but suspenseful. I hope it will do for now.**

"It's blank," Sherlock said, thumbing through the stationary causing the pages to produce a fluttering sound.

"Oh please, Sherlock, you know how I work," I said, rolling my eyes.

"Ah, yes, of course. John, could you get the black light from the kitchen?" Sherlock asked, directing his gaze to the doctor.

John nodded, swallowing a mouthful of tea, "Sure," he said, his lower throat processing the last remains of the hot drink.

He returned after little time had passed, "Here you go," he said while handing the torch to the detective before going back to his seat on top of the wooden box.

Without being told, I stretched to turn the lamp off which was above me. Agony coursed through my leg, ebbing up to my lower torso causing me to groan and retreat.

"I'll get it," John said.

"Thanks."

With the lights now off, Sherlock switched the black light on, concentrating its cool-aid blue rays down on top of the paper. After quickly examining the paper, he frowned and let out a small huff of annoyance, "You wrote it invisible, backwards, upside down, in non-raised braille, and in _Latin_."

"Shouldn't be a problem for you," I chirped back.

"No, no, I wasn't implying _that_," Sherlock said, though he was still glaring at the leaves of paper.

"then what were you implying?" I asked.

"Never mind," the detective muttered, his voice layered in irritation.

A few minutes of silence passed, waiting for Sherlock.

"Well?" I asked expectantly.

"So far it's incredibly dull and-" Sherlock started saying before his voice caught in his throat obviously having found something that pricked his interest.

"Um, yeah, really dull," I said.

"What? What's wrong?" John asked, his voice poking through the tension.

"Everything," the consultant said, "everything."


	7. Chapter 7

"What, what is it?" John asked with concern and slight confusion flitting in his eyes.

"Is there anything else in the backpack?" Sherlock asked, his question directed mostly towards me.

"Why are you asking?" I played dumb.

"For God's sake, don't act stupid. It's very annoying," exclaimed the detective.

"Okay, yes, if you've been able to decode my notebook entries than you'll know about all of my remaining possessions,"

Sherlock jolted up from the chair and hurriedly crossed the room to where my pack lay. He had managed to find all the various technological trinkets that had been crammed in there.

"So, you just wrote it in there like a grocery list? Everything? What if you got caught?" the doctor interjected.

"It wasn't a matter of whether I got caught or not. If that happened, they'd already know what was in the backpack because I stole it from them. I just didn't want this information falling into the hands of any insufferable idiot that ambled along the streets. They would jump all over it. Especially the authorities though they have a bit of a larger beef with me than just that," I answered.

By now, Sherlock had hauled the contents of my bag and had placed them on the ground. The contents that were now strewn across the carpeted floor consisted of: a USB port, a small notebook laptop, and a few memory disks.

"Everything that you need is in there, all of it. Password protected, double, of course but that should be no problem for you." I said to Sherlock.

Sherlock said not a word though his emotions wear quite clearly written on his face for anyone looking: Concern, worry, fear, and basically any sentiments one has when they are anxious about the safety of a person they hold dear. Damn, maybe this Dr. Watson had changed our consulting detective more than I had first thought. The detective then dashed into the kitchen with the electronic devices in his arms.

"Sherlock, what's going on? Sherlock?" called Dr. Watson. He had now abandoned his tea entirely and attempted to follow Sherlock to the kitchen. I could now hear Sherlock climbing stairs to the upstairs flat, and then a few seconds later a second pair footsteps belonging to the doctor chased the first.

But Dr. Watson's attempts were in vain as Sherlock had beaten him to the flat and had closed the door, locking it behind himself.

Dr. Watson then knocked on the door.

"Sherlock, open the door. Sherlock! " John called.

But even to John's pleas the door still remained shut. Then, I could hear John retreat back down the steps and back through the kitchen.

"Must be something really bloody important if the door's closed. That only happens when it's a nine or higher," John commented.

"A nine?" I asked.

"Sherlock and I figured out a system that we use to determine how important a case is. A two is a I'm-only-taking-this-case-because-John-doesn't-want-me-to-smoke, a five is everything-is-boring-god-help-me-and-I-want-to-show-off-because-I'm-Sherlock-Holmes, and nine is don't-even-dream-of-bothering-me-or-I-will-dismember-you-and-use-your-eyeballs-for-an-experiment."

"And a 10?"I ventured.

"Ten is when he starts calling everyone "blankety-blanking-idiots-who-are-a-blanking-blanks-if-they-consider-themselves-intelligent"," John said, "Also, he once nearly experimented on the neighbor's cat because it was making too much noise."

"Well,…"I breathed, "let's hope it's not a 10."


	8. Chapter 8

I must have dozed off shortly after Sherlock holed himself up in the flat above, as the next I remembered was opening my eyes to rays of light lining the wall to my left. They illuminated every single dust particle that floated through the air; surprisingly there were not a large quantity of them.

Another surprising factor worth mentioning was the apocalyptic pain that was running havoc through my left leg.

My eyelids pulled themselves wide apart, causing my eyes to bulge. I was unable to waylay the groan-screech before it left my parted, parched lips.

I could hear a disturbed rustling near my left side which if I had remembered correctly had a slightly overstuffed, ancient arm chair in its area.

Nearly toppling off of the sofa I had been resting on ever since I had the bad luck of being shot, I could barely turn my head to see that someone was sitting a bit haphazardly in the before mentioned chair. Before instinctively turning away to unintentionally vomit from pain, I was able to perceive that the figure was Dr. Watson. I could assume that from the confused, groggy state, as well as his hair that was sticking up a bit, that he was in that he must have spent the night sitting in the floral patterned arm chair.

I'm not going to follow the trend of describing my compulsory vomit from pain because for some odd reason people like to do that. All you need to know is that at that point in time I really hoped that vomit washed out of fabric upholstery. Now, back to the story:

Once my body allowed me to snap my head back to my left I was met with the face of the doctor. He was hastily untying the bandages that were wrapped tightly around my mid/upper left leg.

Once the bandaged fell away from my thigh I will simply say that the sight, was most definitely not one of a healthy bullet wound. The perimeter of where the bullet entered my leg had swelled, squeezing the hole almost to a close. It was a dry wound in regards to blood but as to the pus and whatever lovely body fluid that was oozing out of it, there was abundance, essentially all the signs of infection.

I could see the doctor's worried countenance dissolve to panic.

"Sherlock!" he shouted probably loud enough to rouse the neighbors from their slumber.

-A moment's pause-

Astonishingly, I could hear the upstairs door unlock and opened roughly. Then a pair of feet clattered down the stair in great rapidity. Sherlock then could be heard dashing through the kitchen and then whirled around the right had side of the door frame of the living. Dark circles of sleeplessness and anxiety shadowed the detective's lower eyelids. His curly hair was quiet bedraggled as well making it safe to assume that he had doggedly worked through the night without break or rest.

"Sherlock," John addressed the detective. He approached Sherlock in a way of panic, desperation, and slight anger. Though there was something about his eyes that clearly said, "Please, Sherlock, you always know what to do, you're Sherlock Holmes. You can fix it I don't know what to do. Please, I need help." Maybe Sherlock said he wasn't a hero, but in my opinion, he was in John's eyes.

Sherlock's expression was complete confusion, bleariness, and the one of someone who was thinking, "What the bloody hell is going on?"

"Sherlock, she needs medical care. Now."

"B-but you're a doctor!" Sherlock fumbled.

"Yes I am a doctor but it just so happens that my patient has an infection that cannot be properly treated in a downstairs London flat!"

"John, she can't-"

"And why not?!"

"It's complicated-"

"Sherlock, with you everything's complicated. I've currently got a patient who is in a possible life-threatening condition, they can't go to the hospital, I've got all the time in the world. Explain, " John commanded with a bit of sarcasm thrown into the mix.

I could hear Sherlock trying to desperately scramble for an excuse but his resistance was slowly being to erode.

"Fine, go ahead," I said through partially gritted teeth; the pain in my leg had reached unexplainable level and trying to describe it to you would be useless.

Sherlock glanced over at me as if he wasn't quite sure if I had given him the green light or not.

"Tell him," I reassured. A sweat droplet cascaded into my eye causing me to squint up my left eye. My brow was already saturated with the salty perspiration that was raining out of my pores.

"Sit down," Sherlock motioned to John.

The doctor reclaimed the perch he had last night, the wood bench/storage box which was most likely filled with quilts.

Sherlock took a seat in the overstuffed arm chair, a sigh escaping from his barely parted lips.

"Do you remember Irene Adler, John?"


	9. IMPORTANT UPDATE

Hey guys! I'm not sure if this is the proper way to go about updating, but I want to let you all know that I am BACK. I was looking back at An Unexpected Return and realized that I want to return to it. Since it was first started almost two years ago that means I will be rewriting the current chapters to improve the writing quality. I might post the rewritten stuff as a new story or I might just update the chapters in this one. But just know that An Unexpected Return hasn't been abandoned and that I'm going to get back to working on it ASAP!

I hope you all have a fantastic holiday season!

-V (TheDoctorandtheDaleks)


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